


what we do at evenfall

by lyuyu



Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Other Ships To Be Added, i have no idea what i'm doing but let's go, tags will change as we go, ye olde good edging
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:36:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29713833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyuyu/pseuds/lyuyu
Summary: smut collection for various ships1; nate x sana
Relationships: Female Detective/Nathaniel "Nate" Sewell
Comments: 6
Kudos: 38





	what we do at evenfall

Nate knows many gods, but he’s not sure if any of them can help him now.

He could break out of the handcuffs at any given moment, yet something holds him back (some would say it’s his eagerness to please, or the downfall that comes with being soft-natured or _in love_ ), and so the cuffs stay and hold his hands hostage, all the while Sana, _his Sana_ —

_Oh_ , she will be the swift end of him, the most saccharine of the kind, but not merciful. She’s torturous and his voice has gone hoarse from begging minutes ago; please, _please, please,_ it seems it’s all he remembers, all sense lost to harrowing desire, and maybe he doesn’t need knowledge of else, not for now.

(She has pushed him to the edge over and over and _over_ again, only to leave him teetering, dangerously close to falling on the side of sweet release, and Nate hardly ever finds any words to despise—but _pause_ has become one of them.)

“Look at me,” Sana whispers above him, thighs tight against his ribs, warm and soft and he’s desperate to touch her, or for her to touch him—because simply being inside of her is not nearly enough (yet at the same time, it’s overwhelmingly _too much_ , she pulsates and he throbs, a delicious, echoing agony).

And all because she has done it all and then some; and Nate does, if with strenuous effort, look up at her with clouded eyes, because if he lets them fall closed now, there is no saying what will play behind his lids. Though the thought is tempting in this hour of need, he wouldn’t wish to come undone by his imagination alone, not now, not when Sana says the sweet, _sweet_ words—

_‘Go on, love_.’

His hips are quick thrust up following the permission—it does little to ease the ache but a lot to alleviate his despair, hearing that low gasp that escapes her as her head falls back, feeling her nails rake his chest softly. _Ah_ , he’s been so good for her, honeyed praises dripping from her mouth in a breath each time his hips jerk up hastily to meet hers, chasing after the high that comes forth so quickly it makes him dizzy—

“ _Sana_.” A choked whisper. “I’m so— _please_ , can I—”

She presses a heavy palm in the middle of his chest with a slight shake of her head. He can’t hear it, head swimming, but sees the word form once more, round on her lips— _pause_.

(If he didn’t know any better, and he barely does right now, the faint frown on her would make him think she’s sorry to do so.)

He’s far too gone to be embarrassed about the needy whine—and another pleading _please, let me, let me—_ that pours out of him before he could ever stop it. It takes every ounce of willpower to still himself, chest stuttering and dropping with a defeated whimper, muscles so rigid it nearly makes him fear that he will soon pull one.

(And Nate does wonder if this is what they meant when they said ‘ _it hurts so good,’_ because it does, it does.)

“Good.” Sana leans down to kiss him, murmurs the word against his lips. Delicate hands cup his face, and Nate shudders from the gentle touch. “You’re doing so good for me.”

(He couldn’t answer even if he wanted to. For every word she says, he has forgotten ten.)

She straightens back up, hands slipping away from his cheeks and going to wander over the long lines of his body, every last inch taut and ablaze—the light caress leaves him tingling and quivering in its wake, sharp shockwaves that have his toes curling.

“And so beautiful.” She rolls her hips once; Nate’s eyes flutter shut for a moment, _Christ._ Then again, and she dips back down to kiss the hollow of his throat, his mouth falls open yet no sound comes. “You’re beautiful.”

Then cranes to kiss his cheek as though she’s innocent to all of the torment; winds her hand up in his hair, thumb smoothing over his temple. Tilts her head so that her lips brush against his ear, _moves again,_ and moans, a deep, throaty sound that he replicates.

If he had a clear mind, Nate would laugh about the absurdity of it all: how easy it is for her to overwhelm him, to pick him apart piece by piece. For all he knows and cares, she could bring his end with one soft kiss alone, right here and right now.

He would happily take it.

Sana rises above him again. Her eyes, brown like his but much darker, go over his features in a careful inspection. Her hand still rests tangled in his hair and she keeps rocking her hips at a slow, heavy rhythm, blurry-eyed as she looks at him. _Ah_ , focused on her, it is only now when Nate realizes that she’s trembling ever so slightly, the sound of her heartbeat rapid and thrumming against his hearing.

(And he does—does recognize the neediness that has bled into her eyes and has her mouth falling open with a voiceless gasp, mirroring what must be his expression.) _Ah_ , the white-hot rush comes crashing back and ripples in the pit of his stomach, and for a split second, he thinks that she might be caving.

His sight begins to blur and go black, some twisted speck of hope lifting its head within him.

(Now _, yes,_

_(please),_ _now—)_

—and then she leaves her hips up, not returning down onto his and depriving him of her entirely. Nate writhes, another broken whine, body involuntarily arching towards hers—

(Feels his mouth move in sentences feverishly spoken: _please come back I promise I’ll be good_

_please please please_.)

—and Sana is _eating him up_ with an awestruck gaze: revels in the choppy heaving of his chest, and the smooth lines of his abs that come into stark definition with the strain as he tries to hold back, to fight himself off the paper-thin curb of ecstasy, _god_ , it was so— _he was so_ —

Her hand slips away from his hair, fingertips tracing over the sharp edge of his cheekbone as he stills (barely, with the greatest effort) once more. Nate releases a hiss, every sense flaring: the simple touch could be the catalyst for his combustion

(—if he lets it—

he doesn’t.

_Good, good, good._ )

Sana brushes the backs of her fingers against his cheek, then smoothing her thumb over his lips. Her voice is feathery and laced with care and caution when she asks, “Are you okay?”

Nate _thinks_ he nods.

Sana studies him for one, dragged out moment, eyes dropping to his parted mouth. He’s panting weakly.

She swallows slowly.

“Nate.”

Anticipation coils around and tightens his every fiber upon the whispered name. Sana’s darkened gaze flicks to his bound wrists, and some stray thought seems to pass her mind.

She shivers, a tidal wave of longing pouring.

Her eyes return to his. A heavy _thud_ of a heartbeat sounds and Nate holds his breath as a deep quiet falls, waiting.

—waiting, _waiting_.

And then,

_she nods_ —

(he blinks, silent understanding passes) and the cuffs snap in half with a sharp _clink_.

…

_Ah_.

Nate surges forward, and in a blink of an eye, she’s on her back, head hitting the pillows. A soft gasp airs, he rises above her like a mountain; leaves her in his fervent shadow, the metal around his wrists pressing against the flesh of her thighs as he rushes to touch her.

She _sees_ black swallowing the brown of his eyes. _Oh,_ it sends a thrill through her, his hands gripping her just a little tighter as he looks down at her.

And yet, for a moment, Nate hesitates, as though he’s rooted in place by crushing hunger. Sweat-dampened waves fall over his features (he’s let his hair grow, more and more, for her, it almost reaches his shoulders now, and gosh, he is _lovely_ ).

He releases a slow breath. “Sana,” wets his lips, gaze roaming along the length of her body. Coherency has flown out the window long ago, and he stammers, “Can I, please, _jaanam_ , can I—I need—”

She reaches for him, fingertips brushing the side of his neck, featherlight, then drop to his collarbone, and Nate’s hold of her falters; she slides her legs to wrap around his waist.

Guides him to her gently, pulls until they are flush together (and he’s still aching and throbbing, and she is wet and warm and _sublime_ ).

_Ah_ , “ _Taeal huna.” Come here._ “Take what you need, _sokar_.”

And he sinks into her ( _slowly,_ he’ll have to take it _slow_ ), hands sliding from her thighs to hold her waist as he does so. Sana sighs softly, eyes never leaving him, even when his flutter closed.

( _Adjust_ , he’ll have to _adjust_ ,) her gaze dances on his heated skin, and it prickles.

“Take your time,” she whispers, her voice soothing and gentle, tickling at the edge of his hearing. Shifting his full focus to it solely, the vast overload of his senses begins to melt away, little by little.

For a moment, it’s peaceful, and Nate takes a deep breath in.

He can smell both her arousal and her blood in the air, the coursing adrenaline coating his tongue, and Nate swallows from the rich taste of it; then hears her fingers moving over something slick, wide-eyed as he blinks back to focus and his blurry gaze falls to between her thighs, to where he is buried, and she’s touching herself.

(He licks his lips, without realizing, at the sight of it. A primal, knee-jerk reaction for a man starved.)

Dragging his eyes away (almost reluctantly, too mesmerized) to meet hers, he asks the wordless question, and Sana nods, heels digging into his lower back and other hand clasping his forearm, urging him to move.

And he does, tests his own waters with a tentative thrust, and it’s so raw, _so raw_ , how quickly he can feel her conquer all his senses once more, and how badly he wants her to do so. How he wants to submit to her, _ah_ , he begins to rock into her, and Sana’s breath stutters and hitches, yet an adoring smile spreads on her face.

(Nate can’t help but think how worthy of her name she is at that moment, spread under him _like that_ , looking up at him _like that_ , holding on to him _like that_. Never afraid to be his, as though she has loved him from the beginning of time and knows no other way—and he thinks that, perhaps, in truth, it had been him, who was afraid of _her_ wanting to be _his_.)

He rids the thought with a shake of his head. All that matters is that Sana is here, and she is radiant and splendid, in both her language and his.

Nate thinks little else after that. His hands grip her waist a bit harder with each thrust, head lolling back; Sana showers him with praises, husky and cut into pieces by the slam of their hips, her fingers teasing herself at a steady, yet ever-fastening pace.

He releases a hand from her waist for only a moment when his head rolls back forward, to push away the hair that falls on his eyes. The cacophony of their bodies is beautifully obscene and it’s so easy, too easy, to get lost in it and in her voice (and _in her_ ), the fondness of it envelopes him in the warmest embrace.

He wants to hear her, like this, _always_ —sighing, whispering ‘ _harder, please,’_ and he obliges. She gasps, ‘ _yes, yes,’_ mouth parted and slightly curved into a smile, and _oh_ , that’s a good look on her, the _best._

Pleas drip off her tongue, ‘ _more, more, more,’_ and Nate would, without question, give her the _world_ if it was his to give.

For now, he can only give her himself.

(He hopes it’s enough.)

(It is, it is.)

Sana lets go of his forearm to push herself up on her elbow, eyes barely kept open. Nate dives down to catch her lips, crash and burn, all teeth and tongues and fire.

His name drops from her mouth against his, and he knows it, can feel it, how close she is without her having to say it, and he picks up the rhythm, _fasterharderdeeper_ , Sana’s whimpers wash over him, shocks him to his very bones like thunder—

he mutters her name like a prayer: with a held breath and abundant reverence.

Her thighs tighten around him, knees digging to his sides as she sobs a broken moan, hand jerking away from between her thighs to rush and cup the back of his neck to press their foreheads together as she starts to come, _gods,_ he makes love to her throughout it—

—Sana would contest, tell him to call it something else, but he refuses to think about it as anything but, certainly not as something as lewd as _fucking—_

—and she shakes, clenches around him, back arching, calling his name, _a heavenly chorus_ , it all becomes so much, _too much_ , but he’s greedy and thrusting as deep as he can, to feel all of it, to feel her, _more more more,_

(says something, maybe. If he does, he can’t say what it is with certainty.)

Like some distant echo, he hears Sana murmur, “ _Good_ —come for me, come for me,”

braces a hand against the headboard as he does, finally, _finally,_ erupts with a rough growl that seems to shake the whole room. Shattering shudder rocks through him _,_ _ah_ , fingers curling around the edge of it

(—it splinters, with a loud _crack_ , and were it any other day, he’d be mortified,)

and for a moment, everything goes _dark._

_God._

His lungs are burning. Ringing sounds in his ears.

Everything tingles.

Eyes falling shut, he hunches forward to lean his forehead against the headboard. _Deep breaths_. Shivers run down his spine, and Nate is grateful to have learned how to soothe his storming senses—thinks that, otherwise, he might’ve been bursting at the figurative seams.

Perhaps even literal.

_God._

He’s so tired.

_Content_ but tired, every bone and muscle in his body feels like jelly. Some things even vampirism can’t help with, and it’s the first time Nate finds such a thought amusing rather than ignores it.

Lie down—he needs to lie down. Sana welcomes him with open arms, and he all but collapses into her embrace, head coming to rest on her chest.

Nothing is said, and nothing else is done.

*

He’s quite sure he has dozed off, or at the very least tiptoed at the threshold of sweet slumber, though he awakes when Sana moves to reach for their nightstand.

She takes his hands in hers after, one at a time, a soft _clink_ , the remnants of the cuffs come off and she rubs her thumbs in smooth circles over his wrists for a moment before setting them back down carefully.

He yawns; Sana teases her fingers through his hair, gathering them in her hands. She draws languid circles across his scalp as she does so, then ties them up in a loose bun, whispering, “Nate?”

The best he can give is a drowsy ‘uh-huh’ in response. “We still need to clean up.” The reminder comes with a quiet chuckle. “Or at least I do.”

Nate draws a deep breath in, tilting his face to nuzzle her chest. “Can we stay like this for a little longer?”

(He almost follows up with a _please. Oh,_ he’s _so_ out of it.)

Sana’s palm sets on his cheek and she ducks down to brush a kiss into his hair.

“Of course,” she murmurs. “Take your time, _sokar_.”

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @hartfeld


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